Heroes of the Storm
by The Mighty Santa
Summary: 5 extraordinary individuals are called together on an extraordinary journey to save or burn the universe. Yet first they must overcome their own differences and prejudices...
1. Preface

As a long time avid fanfiction reader, I have read through many fanfiction, some good, most bad. Most recently, I read PeteSkizzle's "Starcraft: Forward Unto Dawn" and Toasterman's "The Confederate." I highly suggest checking out both those books, as they were my main source of inspiration for the writing of this story.

While I loved both stories, I was slightly offset by lack of characters and character development in both fanfictions. Now, don't get me wrong, both are fantastic reads, but I just felt they could have developed a little more, a little better. I was also a bit disappointed in the lack of characters in both novels (more so in SC: FuD than the Confederate). And there, a fanfiction was born.

I have never written fanfiction in my life. I was always content to simply read and give helpful criticism and reviews. But this idea I could not pass up.

It's funny, actually. It took me longer to think of the title than the actual plot of the story. Yes, there is a new Blizzard MOBA-style game coming out shortly under the name "Heroes of the Storm" and a lot of the characters used in this fanfiction are also used in that game. Yet it felt so appropriate that I just had to use it. I hope I don't get sued by Blizzard :)

Anyhow, enough of my rambling. I humbly present for your pleasure, **Heroes of the Storm**.

~The Mighty Santa

Warning: Obviously and clumsily inserted references from Lord of the Rings, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Shawshank Redemption etc will be used heavily and with indiscrimnate justice (see wat I did there). Just a forewarning.


	2. Broken

**Act I: Battle for Cadia**

**Chapter I: Broken**

* * *

They say there is one man whose kill-count is higher than the entire Dominion military combined. One man with enough zerg blood on his hands to drown an army. One man who simply walks into battle and not just destroy, but completely annihilate, obliterate the enemy. One man who can tear down armies, beat down demons, talk to the heavens. His legend is greater than that of Arcturus Mengsk, the great savior of Mankind himself.

Children want to be him when they grow up. Parents set him as a role model. He is whispered about in dark alleyways, and the mere mention of his name hushes a crowd like a candle in a hurricane. He is a god among men, a rose among thorns, a swan among the geese. He is known to the enigmatic protoss as simply the Desolator, and his face has been added to the Annals of the Great Library on Aiur. It is rumored that all zerg ever born are first shown an image of his face and told to kill him on sight, no matter the cost.

Yet, this hero knows the truth. Inside he is a broken, decimated man, like a deer after an unfortunate encounter with a lion. He has lost his family, his home, and at the end, the one he loved. And she had not just been taken from him. She had been twisted, changed, _transmuted_ into a merciless and cruel monster.

When he does appear publicly, he is forced to put on a facade, a mask. He must hide behind the tears of a clown because he knows that without him mankind is doomed. He is their candle in the darkness, their guardian angel in the face of hell and pure evil itself. He needs to be what humanity wants him to be because if he truly shows his inner brokeness, his weakness, the light of humanity will be snuffed out once and for all.

This is the burden he must wear. The burden of over 23 billion sentient individuals. This is the story of Jim Raynor.

* * *

They say there is one protoss who has destroyed entire planetfulls of zerg. The most tireless defender of protoss and humanity, they say he has slain so many zerg the mass of their dead carcasses would outweigh a star. They say he has completely mastered the arts of the Ancients, the Xel'Naga themselves. That he is able to disappear into the void of night and reappear at will, and that he can simply blink out of existance and step back out great distances later.

Instrumental in the defeat of the zerg in the Great War, he is a hero to both human and protoss, man and alien. And his humility. Oh, the humility. He did not accept any medals, any honors. No statues have been erected in his honor, no buildings named after him. The bane of the enemies of the protoss and the silent defender.

Yet, this hero knows the truth. Despite the public persona of confidence, inside he is hanging by a thread, resting on the edge of a knife. Shaken to his core. A great wound has been inflicted upon him. And this type of wound never heals, never goes away, always stays with him, haunting him inside, driving him to the edge of his sanity. A great guilt, humiliation and shame. The burden of a murder, a murder against his own Matriarch.

He also has a burden, the burden of the survival of his race, his people. And yet he fled. Just as he had fled before the zerg on Aiur he now fled from his own people. And so the humiliation, guilt and shame built and built on in an endless cycle of despair and hopelessness. Yet he cannot bring himself to go back. He knows the truth.

They say the truth shall set you free. No. The truth is a monster, a beast that must be contained yet not destroyed. That is perhaps the hardest burden of them all, the burden of truth. This is the story of Zeratul.

* * *

They say there is a Space Marine who is a level above all other Space Marines. Rumors of his battle prowess and victories has reached the ears of the High Lords themselves. His combat skills match that of the Primarchs themselves. He has no equal, none even among the Astartes. His origins are a mystery, as are his thoughts. He has slain countless thousands of xeno yet never once graced a heretic with his blade. Instead, he has captured thousands of heretics and brought them back, even against strict orders from his superiors. Any other Space Marine would have been reprimended. Yet he has not once been even touched by a slap on the wrist.

He is known as the Guardian of Mankind, the Daemonfoe, Defender of the Sacred Truth, Keeper of the Light. Over the years, he has risen to the top, to the rank of Chapter Master of the Night Hawks when the entire chapter was almost wiped out during the Battle of Cadia. Once he took over, things changed. He has the uncanny ability to lead his chapter into battle and return with not a single casualty. Under his leadership, the kill-to-death ratio of the Night Hawks has become unparalleled among the Space Marine Chapters, even the relentless Ultramarines.

He is the epitome of service to the Emperor.

Yet he knows the truth. Cadia. The land that reduced a 1,000-strong Chapter into a mere 19. The land that gifted him with the curse of leadership. Inside, he is tired, restless, worn out. Qualities not usually seen in a Space Marine, yet he is unique. One might say more... human. He is not infallible. He has inner flaws, weaknesses which he, and only he knows. Inner scars that might heal but never quite fade.

Sometimes it feels like he is alone in his fight against the xeno, heretic and traitor. Sometimes it feels like all is lost and he is fighting a hopeless battle. A lost cause. Yet he remembers. Someone once told him. Someone he does not remember. That the lost causes are the ones worth fighting for. This is the story of Trajan Praetor Malphas.

* * *

They say there is a man who is not just a man. He is above a simple human, far superior to any _mere_ homo sapien. His sizzling blade has sliced through thousands of battle droids and enemies of the Republic. He has brought armies to their knees, enemy leaders to their demise. He is a monster during combat, able to defeat unlimited normal humans and dozens of Force-users at a time.

He is known as the Chosen One, the Hero-With-No-Fear, the Savior of Coruscant. Adored by trillions of citizens throughout the galaxy, he is a hero to countless boys and the crush to an innumerable number of girls. The official respresentative of the Chancellor to the Jedi Council, he is the youngest to ever gain a seat on the revered council. Paired with the Great Negotiator, the legendary Obi-Wan Kenobi, he is unstoppable.

Yet he knows the truth. Right now, nothing exists to him. To him, Coruscant is just another hunk of metal and earth he would gladly sacrifice to have _her _back. His one true meaning of existence. Padmé. His Padmé, taken from him. Snatched away and used as _bait_, only to perish in the death throes of a Confederate flagship. He is scarred, bruised, battered inside and a the end of it all, nothing an replace Padmé. Not the awards, the honorifics, the adorers... he would give it all away to have her back.

Without Padmé he is empty. Without Padmé he is nothing. Without Padmé he might as well die. And so he looks down, from the 156th floor of the Senate Apartment Complex. Nothing he had ever done mattered. The biggest impact he would ever have is on the sidewalk. It was over. Finished.

This is the story of Anakin Skywalker.

* * *

They say there is a man who has the power to drain the essense of the powers of a mage with a mere touch of his flesh. A man who single-handedly obliterated the armies of the Dead God, and eventually the God of Decay himself. He started as a pilgrim- a pilgrim who seeked to learn the ways of the monks of Turstarkuri, who seeked to gain wisdom and power. He had once believed these monks were the height of all human widom, the peak of knowledge.

Yet he also realized how foolish they were also. As the minions of the Dead God attacked they refused to retaliate, believing them to be demonic visions sent to distract them from their meditations. He saw their blindness to their doom and swore to never ignore any threat, no matter how unlikely. The attack lasted barely a fortnight, with all the friends he had ever known slaughtered while meditating on their cushions. And worse still, they were raised from their death to join the ranks of the Legion of the Dead God.

With nothing but a few of Turstarkuri's prized dogmatic scrolls, he crept away to other lands, where he swore not simply to end the magic users of the Dead God, but magic itself. Within a few years he had mastered the arts and practices of the Turstarkuri, and he had all but annihilated the Dead God and his undead army. He was admired as a savior and a hero to all neighboring nations yet he never accepted a single accolade nor honor. There was only one thing on his mind: the destruction of all magic, the terrible magic that had ended the lives of his brothers.

Yet even amongst all the glory and fame, he knows the truth. On the inside he is a torn, crushed soul that will never quite regain the vitality of his youth. There is a pain that never goes away, a pain that hurts more than just skin deep.

Still now he wanders the lands, hunting down mages and ending sources of magics. Some say he will never die, he will not let himself perish until all magic has been extinguished. This is the story of Magina, the Anti-Mage.

* * *

And so our saga begins. 5 broken, humbled, worn out, yet extraordinary individuals who will embark on an even more extraordinary journey. A journey that will take them to distant realms, to the edge of maps and the far crevices of desolate moons. An epic saga that will shake the foundations of the universe to its core. This is the story of the Heroes of the Storm.


	3. First Encounters of the Deadly Kind

**Chapter II: First Encounters of the Deadly Kind**

* * *

You know you're in deep shit when you almost faint again as soon as you wake up. Most men would probably have fainted given the situation he had the unfortune of being in. However, James Eugene Raynor was not most men. And the face he was staring into was not, as it would be to most people, a fearsome alien, but rather a good friend. A friend who had stood by him to the end of days. An old friend, ancient in his ways, mysterious in his footsteps. The Prelate Zeratul.

A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. "Welcome back, you lousy son of a bitch. Now help me up before I send you back to whatever hell you've been exploring."

The psychic voice of Zeratul crept into his head. "Brave words for a mere mortal. I have journ-"

"Through the darkness between the most distant stars, beheld the birth of negative-suns, borne witness to the entropy of entire realities, anything else?"

Zeratul was silent for a moment before responding. "Sometimes I forget how annoying you humans are."

The first thing he noticed was the darkness. Absolute, pitch black darkness. The Can't-See-Your-Own-Hand-In-Front-Of-Your-Face darkness. The only reason he could see Zeratul was because of the crystal embedded into his armor, but he could see even those were slowly diminishing.

"The hell..."

Raynor instantly rolled to his feet, his guass rifle's familiar click-clack hardly reassuring him. Throughout the war he had developed a healthy fear of darkness, especially darkness he couldn't see through with his night vision.

* * *

The piercing silence was shattered as_something_ smashed into Zeratul with the force of a small earthquake. Zeratul immediately understood that had he been a mere mortal, he would have been killed instantly. However, Zeratul was no mere mortal.

He slashed up with his warp blades, only to find air where flesh had been moments ago. By Adun, it was fast. He slipped to the side, narrowly avoiding its blade, if it could be called that. It was a monstrosity of a weapon, a roaring, ugly weapon blade with not a hint of elegance. Yet he could see how effective it would be in the heat of battle, against lower foes. In the right hands, it could be a tool of destruction, a terrifying saber of death.

Up close, Zeratul could see that the thing was indeed a man. A very large and heavily armored man, but a man nonetheless.

To a mortal the being was a whirlwind, his movements a blur. To Zeratul, he was swimming through syrup. He easily dodged his attacks, shifting his body into shapes not possible for the human body. Move. Dodge. Repeat. Move. Dodge. Repeat. Movedodgerepeat. Movedodgerepeatmovedodgerepeatmovedodgerepeat. And yet the man still pressed on, pulling his energy from seemingly endless pit.

For the first time in over a century, Zeratul was surprised. This was not part of the plan. He was supposed to have tired out by now, so that Zeratul could deliver the coup de grace, knocking him out so he could be interrogated. Yet he showed no signs of tiring; rather, it seemed like the attacks were getting _stronger_.

"ENOUGH!" he yelled mentally, forcing the armored man back through sheer force of will. He flicked down his blade, catching his opponent's blade and slicing through. He twirled forward and swung out his arm, expecting to hit his foe squarely on the chin, knocking him out.

For the second time in as many minutes, Zeratul was surprised. No, more than surprised. He was _shocked_. _Speechless_. His fist had not connected with the man's head. No, it was now in the crushing armored grip of his enemy.

He pushed with all his strength, and yet he could not force the hand back. He could not activate his warp blade; just one second of taking the concentration off his hand would end this battle.

* * *

By the Emperor, this xeno was tough! He had jumped in with the expectation of a quick confrontation with what appeared to be a strange Dark Eldar, yet he found himself being _outmatched_ in strength. This was not supposed to happen. The xeno's grip was like iron, his eyes cold as steel. Yet from here he could see that the xeno was no Eldar, dark or otherwise.

In all his knowledge and experience, he had never witnessed a creature like this. Agile yet powerful, swift yet with power. It was dangerous, cunning, and a threat to mankind.

"PUNY MORTAL!" boomed a voice in his head, startling him and costing him a few inches of ground. "You speak of knowledge, of experience? I have journeyed through the darkness between the most distant stars. I have beheld the birth of negative suns and borne witness to the entropy of entire realities. You are but a chaff in the wind, _human_."

Righteous anger flared within him as the xeno spewed affronts against mankind, which he was sworn to protect.

"FILTHY XENO! YOU DARE ABASE THE DIVINITY OF MANKIND?! I WILL CRUSH YOUR SKULL UNDER MY FEET AND BREAK YOUR BACK WITH MY BARE HANDS. KNOW THAT IT IS I, TRAJAN PRAETOR MALPHAS WHO HAS SLAIN YOU. FOR THIS DAY YOU WILL DIE."

Malphas twisted around, keeping the xeno's hand in his grip as he snatched up his bolter so fast that for just a second a vacuum existed where the bolter had once been. He brought up the bolter, held it at the head of the xeno, and fired.

DAKKA! DAKKA! DAKKA!

6 .75 caliber bolter rounds exploded out of his bolter at 900 meters per second. They traveled the short 3 feet between Malphas and Zeratul in a blink of an eye. The diamantine tip impacted. A split second later, the main and secondary charges exploded in a blinding display of light and fury.

"Filthy xeno," he spat." Fall before the wrath o-"

Before he could finish his sentence, a bright green blade exploded upwards, pointed an inch away from his face.

"Checkmate."

* * *

Raynor snapped out of his stupor and snapped up his rifle.

"Hey buddy, just calm down. No one needs to get hu-"

He stopped in mid-setence as a white-purple blade came to rest on his neck.

"Well shit."

* * *

"Silence."

His curt command rang out into the empty darkness, stopping the combatants by sheer force of will.

"I am the Antimage. Who art thou?"

He relesed his right blade but kept his other weapon on the strange armored man's back.

"The name's Raynor, buddy. Hey look, no need for the hostility. I ain't gonna hurt you, and you ain't gonna hurt me. Sounds good?" he responded.

He swept his arm about, pointing to the other, frozen fighters. "And who art they?"

A look of confusion ran across his face before he responded, "I dunno. You wanna ask them?"

The Antimage looked at Raynor, his face contorted in disgust, and said, "I find thy lack of English disturbing."

Thoughts raced through his head at a million miles per hour as he studied the man before him. His armor did not appear to be magical in nature; rather, it seemed to be highly advanced in technology, similar to his old friend Aurel or Bousch. His gray weapon was also an unfamiliar sight. It seemed to be related to Karel Sharpeye's sniper rifle, but was much larger.

The others were strange to him as well, although the one with the green blades reminded him of Lanaya, the Templar Assassin. Their weapons were rather similar, and their faces were startlingly alike as well. He could not discern much about the being behind the piercing green eyes, but he marked him as a potential threat.

The final one was perhaps the strangest. Like the first, he was human, and was also in some sort of combat armor. However, his armor seemed much less advanced, like that of Sven the Rogue Knight and perhaps even more like that of the mysterious Chaos Knight. Ornate golden symbols were carved into the armor, which was pitch black. What stuck out most about him, though, was the intense hatred that shone through his eyes. Such hatred was dangerous, and unpredictable. The Antimage mentally noted to watch out for him.

He called out to the others. "Who art thou?"

A deep, almost _majestic_ voice rang out. "I am Space Marine Trajan Praetor Malphas, Chapter Master of the Night Hawks, Son of the One True Emperor. They call me the Guardian of Mankind, Daemonfoe, Defender of the Sacred Truth, Keeper of the Light. I am a veteran of thousands of battles and lain waste to countless more, whether they be xeno, heretic or mutant. I live to serve the Emperor and his Truth, and to protect Mankind from all threats. Now, here is my question: who are you, Antimage?"

He smiled. "That is a good question, Space Marine. Who am I? Perhaps thou could tell me, veteran of a thousand battles. For all my life I have searched for this knowledge. I still know it not. But know this, Trajan Praetor Malphas, I am the Antimage, brought into existence to bring an end to all vile magic." The Antimage turned to the only non-human in the standoff. "Prepare, thyself, foul magician, for I come anon!"

And with that, he Blinked. It was a skill he had used thousands of times; yet he still had no answer to how he was able to do it. The scrolls had explained nothing, only outlining the steps necessary to gain that power; which he had done eagerly; but it held no knowledge on its origins, or how it was even possible.

His right blade sped towards the alien's face at near supersonic speed, while his left he kept ready to parry the inevitable counterattack.

It never happened.

The blade had hit something, but that something was not the flesh of a magic user. Rather, it was an invisible barrier that kept his blade from severing the head of this abomination.

"I see thou hast mastered thy foul arts well. But they do not call me the Antimage for nothing."

He struck again, this time with both blades. His opponent simply stood still, so arrogant, so confident in his heretical abilities. So had been the Dead God, right until his revolting excuse of a head had fallen off his head, right after his arms and legs.

His attacks grew in frequency until his arms were a blur and both his blades had broken the sound barrier. And as his blades struck the strange shield, he felt something out of his attacker.

Fear. Only for the briefest of moments and now replaced by a cold determination, but it had been there. He smiled. He was beginning to learn what it mean to face the Antimage in combat.

His blades were no ordinary blades. Built by the dwarves, refined by the elves and blessed by the monks, they were indestructible, undullable, and most importantly of all, a breaker of magic.

Every hit made by his blades would drain any magic user of their pool of magical power, until they were helpless before their demise. He had faced many sorcerers who had believed themselves indestructible. He had proven them all wrong.

And so his opponent began to fight back, his mesmerizing blade clashing with his. He slashed, and when his attack was blocked, leaped forward over the beast's head, his other blade on its way down. The alien brought his own weapon up faster than even he had thought possible, parrying his blow and forcing him to land with his back turned. He expected the next blow and hit it away with his blade without even looking, before turning around to continue the fight. And even though it seemed as though a parity of sorts had been achieved between them, in truth it was not so. Each hit he made with his blades on the alien's weapon or shield drained his magical essence, weakening his shield and body. It was a battle of attrition he could not lose, and he had one more ace up his sleeve.

Swiftly he pulled back, his sudden absence putting the xeno off guard, as he had expected. And then he struck with his coup de grâce.

Sheer, unadulterated light poured out of his opponent's slender body as all the magic he had broken from the alien worked against him, wrecking havoc over his soul and flesh. The shockwave from the blast traveled the distance to all the others in a fraction of a second, flinging them backwards.

He stood over the body of his unconscious enemy, victorious as usual. "Thy life's weight in mana pay," he said as he prepared to bring down his blade. The purple weapon swung down, on a perfect trajectory for his throat; until it was caught at the last moment by a shimmering blue blade.

Magina the Antimage looked up, and found himself staring into the yellow eyes of a broken young man.

"You shall not kill any being while it is helpless on the ground."

* * *

"You shall not kill any being while it is helpless on the ground," said Anakin Skywalker, Child of the Force and the Chosen One. "You must first go through me."

The strange man nodded. "So shall it be." He then leaped, his blades outstretched and aimed at his throat.

He brought up his lightsaber to parry the blow, before rolling underneath the man. He extended his lightsaber and was about to thrust it into the exposed back of the so-called Antimage when he suddenly found himself not in control of his body.

Suddenly, the darkness vanished, replaced instead by a blinding white light.

"Be still."

* * *

**Sorry about the late chapter, but real life has a way of messing things up, big time. Now, if you haven't already, please search Antimage on Google Images so you can see what he looks like. Here's some links that'll help you understand who he is. In the response link make sure you click the arrows next to the quotes so you can hear what his voice sounds like.**

**dota2 . gamepedia /**** Anti-Mage**

**dota2 . gamepedia / Anti-Mage_responses**

**Or go to my profile to click the links since is retarded. **

**The setting of this fanfic will be the WH40k-verse, right after the 13th Black Crusade and the Battle of Cadia. Other people/items from other universes may make an appearance in the fanfic later, but it'll be Starcraft/Star Wars/Dota 2/WH40k for now. **

**As for who the Big Voice is, well, we don't want to ruin the surprise, do we? (: Also bonus cookies for whoever gets all the references I have inserted into this chapter :D**

**PS I have changed Raziel's name to Trajan, after perhaps the greatest Roman emperor of all time. If you guys want to change it back, just let me know in the review section. And don't forget to leave a review!**


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